


A Long Way To Go

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-11
Updated: 2009-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Artois, France – Late May, 1915</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Way To Go

England glanced at his watch—another endless day was drawing to a close, though the grey sky above did little to betray the time of day. He opened another missive, which was sure to contain the same as the others: no advances made, more Tommies lost. The nauseating, choking feeling of the losses at Ypres had subsided into a steady background ache in the past weeks—England supposed he was grateful for that much, though the current stalemate ground at his nerves, losses slowly piling up, unable to move forward and to make any sort of progress. The report from Canada had the same strained cheer as always, assuring him that the Germans were being held back.

France walked towards him, casually spearing a skittering rat with his bayonet and flinging it out of the trench into no-man’s-land, pulling out a dirty handkerchief with a flourish to clean his bayonet blade. “Ah, I’m sorry, England, did you want that rodent? I’m sure it would have been a step up from your usual dinner fare,” he said, turning to England with wide-eyed mock concern.

England didn’t bother to look up from the missives he was reading. “Tell you what, you can go up there and get it for me. I’d be much obliged.”

Glancing up at the deceptive calm of the muddy field above, France smirked. “Well, much as an adventure on the _billard_ would be exciting, I suppose another will come along soon for you. I’m sure we’ll be able to manage some sort of rat sauté, or maybe even a rat fricassé.”

England raised an eyebrow. “What, is that the sauté with a slightly bigger rat?”

“Oh, England, your lack of culture grieves me deeply,” France sighed dramatically, sitting down slowly next to him, stiffly. England would have ribbed on him for being a little less spry than usual, but there seemed to be a permanent chill in his bones these days, making them creak and protest whenever he moved. Really, of all times to start feeling old. This was truly one of the most wet, muddy places he had been in since, oh, the middle ages.

France already had a cigarette tucked between his lips, patting himself down for a pack of matches. Finally, he pulled a match out, striking it ineffectually against the damp cardboard box. With a sigh, France slouched over his knees. “Ahh, it’s a sad day when a man can’t even enjoy an evening cigarette,” he said, looking meaningfully at England.

England rolled his eyes, and reached into his pocket. Really, France was thoroughly insufferable without what he called “ _les petits plaisirs de la vie_ ”—which apparently included cigarettes. France smirked at him as he cracked a match. (His were perfectly dry, thank you—really, if France was just the slightest bit more careful.)

The match flared to life, casting a warm glow all about them as France leaned in, carefully inhaling. His body seemed to curl towards England’s hand, as if trying to absorb the feeble heat coming off the match. In the light, France’s face was dirty and worn. To be honest, his was probably little better at the moment.

France sat back with a satisfied sigh, letting a smooth stream of smoke curl out from between his lips. “My, England, I think you’ve just satisfied my carnal desires for, oh, the next week or so.” He took another deep drag, looking almost disturbingly sated, and passed the cigarette over to England.

England snorted. “Knowing you, I find that extremely unlikely.” He took a long draught of the cigarette, holding the smoke in for a moment before blowing it out in a gust of air. France’s Gauloises were truly awful—really, what he wouldn’t do for a pipe and some proper tobacco.

“You wound me, England! Of course, I can barely resist your constant tantalising presence—why, it’s gotten to the point where I can almost ignore the smell of your feet.”

He raised an eyebrow sardonically. “Really? That’s surprising. I would have thought that your own unique odour would have killed your sense of smell several decades ago.”

“Ah, that is merely my masculine musk, England. It’s all right, I know it can be overwhelmingly attractive. You must refrain from throwing yourself upon me, however, as I fear we might make the _Boches_ a little jealous.” France’s expression shifted into a more contemplative look. “Well, unless that’s your intent, mon cher. In which case, I would have to applaud your innovative battle strategies against the German advance.”

“You are utterly infuriating.” He’d meant to put a bit more heat into that statement, really.

“You must mean ‘charming,’ surely. The two can be so easily confused.” France gestured expansively with the cigarette, crossing his legs to affect his usual poise, as if they were sitting on a Parisian terrace, and not some godforsaken dirty, wet trench somewhere in Artois. God, he was completely incorrigible, irrepressible, even now—just as he’d always been.

England fisted a hand in the front of France’s ridiculous, extravagant uniform, tugging sharply and crushing their mouths together. He fought down a small surge of triumph at France’s slight start of surprise, before France kissed back, and of course the bastard knew how to kiss, sweeping his tongue into England’s mouth smoothly. England pulled back to bite at France’s lower lip—he certainly couldn’t let him get the upper hand in this.

He let out a frustrated growl—this just wasn’t enough—and pushed France back, moving to straddle his leg.

France cast a mournful look over at his cigarette now smouldering in the mud, having dropped it in the shuffle. “Really, England. Must you?” He gave an overly dramatic sigh that belied the hands already stroking down England’s back. “Well, if you insist, I suppose I must oblige you.”

England chose not to dignify that with an answer, instead slipping a knee between France’s legs and pressing up firmly; France grinned at him, letting out a smothered grunt and pulling him towards his body. He ground down onto France’s leg, relishing the rough friction of the uniform cloth and the muscle beneath. France, that damnably smooth bastard, had somehow already managed to slip a hand into his uniform, stroking at his skin of his stomach. He muffled a groan by biting at France’s neck, France tilting his head back, only encouraging him further.

They were rutting against each other roughly, utterly graceless, and England couldn’t bring himself to care. France’s long fingers were digging into his hips, encouraging England to thrust against him

“Ha, this really is a bit lacking in elegance, England,” France said, with a quiet gasp. No, France was right, for once—there was nothing elegant about this, about the lines forcefully carved into the soil and the sluggish, brutal fight for ten yards forward, every inch measured out in flesh. There was nothing noble about the sickly yellow fog of gas, the shrill screams of bullets and men alike, the frantic, desensitizing fear, and the slow rot of sickness and desperation.

He felt France wince slightly as his hand pressed against the long, ragged wound on his shoulder, and he moved his hand lower on France’s back—they’d have to re-bandage that later, as the sluggish bleeding never seemed to stop, threatening to fester.

England reached forward to grasp roughly at France’s cock, grinding the heel of his palm against him. He grinned as France’s hips jerked forward into his touch. France mirrored his sharp, wry smile as the audacious bastard made quick work of his belt, slipping his hand into England’s uniform trousers. “My, England, this is all a bit rushed, isn’t it?”

“If you think I’m going to lay you down in a bed of rose petals, you’ve got another thing coming,” England shot back. The barrier of their uniforms was intensely frustrating, cutting him off from the basic, raw feeling of skin on skin, but he had to make the best of it. England pulled at the collar of France’s jacket to bite at the sinew of his shoulder, as he pushed his hand into France’s trousers, France’s nails digging into his back as he hissed sharply.

France’s hand worked at him briskly, not bothering to tease. It was quick and hard, and exactly what England needed right now.

Neither of them could last long, worn down and ragged as they were—England felt a rush of sensation, gasping against France’s shoulder and coming into his hand. He tried to concentrate through the slight haze, stroking France more quickly, and felt France’s fingers tighten painfully on his hip as he came.

He pulled away, bracing an arm against the planks of the trench walls.

It was surprising to feel France trace a hand up his neck, threading through his hair and cupping the back of his head. England would completely deny any knowledge of the small noise he made against France’s lips as France drew him into a kiss, unexpectedly gentle.

He could feel his chapped lips catching slightly against France’s own. It felt bizarrely chaste, the world narrowing down to the simple press of lips for a moment. The two of them had fucked, fought, bled together, more often than not at each other’s hands, and now—well, now they were here.

France pressed his lips against England’s neck—his voice was a muted rumble, saying how the fields near Arles should be ready to harvest soon, rich and lavender-bright under the cloudless sky. Maybe they’d be done with this whole unhappy mess by then, and England could come to visit, perhaps—to properly appreciate just how beautiful his Provence was, of course, compared to all that horribly dreary English weather.

England snorted, almost a laugh. He stood up, attempting to tidy up his uniform into some semblance of proper composure, accepting the handkerchief that France handed to him to clean his hand.

The sun was setting upon the muddy, ravaged field, and the nightly buzz of activity was starting up, swallowing the eerie silence that hung over the trenches during the day. He had to go and oversee the evening stand-to—hopefully there wouldn’t be an attempt tonight—and organize the relief of the front-line troops, which was sure to take several long, frustrating hours.

“England,” France called, prompting England to turn towards him. France reached out, adjusting England’s tie and smoothing it down to lie neatly against his uniform, then grasping the lapel of his uniform and giving him a rough shake. He smiled, sharp and weary. “Don’t get shot, _rosbif_.”

“Same to you, poilu.”


End file.
